THE LAND OF FLOWERS
“No wonder the Spaniards named this beautiful land ‘Florida’!”
rapturously exclaimed Beatrice Forbes. “I never dreamed it _could_ be
quite so wonderful as this.”
“I suppose when first they saw it, they must have felt about it as we
do now,” returned Eleanor. “According to history they landed here on
Easter Sunday. We’re seeing Florida at about the same time of year as
they first saw it. It’s almost as wonderful to us as it was to them.
Not quite, of course, because they underwent all sorts of hardships
before they landed here. So they must have thought it like Heaven.”
Exactly one week had elapsed since the Wayfarers had arrived in Morton
with the pleasing prospect ahead of them of a six weeks’ vacation.
Three days of hurried preparation had followed. Then had come the
long, rather tiresome railway journey to Florida. They had arrived at
Palm Beach late in the afternoon of the sixth day, had been met by Mr.
Carroll and had spent the night at one of Palm Beach’s most fashionable
hotels.
Weary from the long railway trip, the travelers had resisted the lure
of a water fête, to be given that evening on Lake Worth, and retired
early.
“I can secure a boat, if you girls are anxious to take in the fête,”
Mr. Carroll had informed his flock at dinner that evening. “This fête
will be nothing very remarkable, however. Later on, I understand, a
big Venetian fête is to be given. Why not wait and go to that? We can
easily run up to the Beach in the car from Las Golondrinas. I would
suggest going to bed in good season to-night. Then we can make an early
start in the morning for our new home.”
This program being approved by all, the Wayfarers had dutifully settled
down early for the night. It was now a little after ten o’clock on the
following morning and the big touring car, driven by Mr. Carroll, was
bowling due south over a palm-lined country road, toward its objective,
Las Golondrinas.
It was a particularly balmy morning, even for southern Florida, where
a perpetual state of fine weather may be expected to hold sway during
the winter months. Southward under tall palms, past villa after villa,
embowered in gorgeously colored, flowering vines, the touring car
glided with its load of enthusiastic beauty-worshippers.
Seated between Miss Martha and Eleanor in the tonneau of the machine,
Beatrice was perhaps the most ardent worshipper of them all. Love of
Nature was almost a religion with her. She was a true child of the
great outdoors.
“It’s so beautiful it makes me feel almost like crying,” she confided
to her companions as she drew in a deep breath of the exquisitely
scented morning air. “It’s so different from the Adirondacks. Up there
I felt exhilarated; as though I’d like to stand up and sing an anthem
to the mountains. But all this fragrance and color and sunlight and
warm, sweet air makes me feel--well--sentimental,” finished Bee rather
timidly.
“It seems more like an enchanted land out of a fairy-tale than a real
one,” mused Eleanor. “No wonder the birds begin to fly south the minute
it grows chilly up north. They know what’s waiting for them down here.”
“That’s more than we know,” smiled Beatrice, her brown eyes dreamy.
“We’re explorers, once more, setting foot in a strange, new country.
Something perfectly amazing may be waiting for us just around the
corner.”
“I hope it won’t be a horrid big snake,” shuddered practical Mabel,
who sat opposite the trio on one of the small seats. “There are plenty
of poisonous snakes down here, you know. Moccasins and diamond-back
rattlers, coral snakes and a good many other varieties that aren’t
poisonous, but horrible, just the same.”
“Why break the spell by mentioning anything so disagreeable as snakes,
Mab?” asked Eleanor reproachfully. “I’d forgotten that there were such
hateful, wriggly things. How do you happen to be so well up on the
snakology of Florida?”
“There’s no such word as snakology,” retorted Mabel. “You mean
_herpetology_.”
“Snakology’s a fine word, even if old Noah Webster did forget to put it
in the dictionary,” laughed Eleanor. “Isn’t it, Miss Martha?”
“I can’t say that I specially admire any word pertaining to snakes,”
dryly answered Miss Carroll. “While we are on the subject, however,
I may as well say that nothing can induce me to go on any wild
expeditions into these swamps down here. I daresay these jungles are
full of poisonous snakes. I greatly doubt the advisability of allowing
you girls to trail around in such dangerous places.”
“Oh, we’ll be all right with a real Indian guide to show us the way,”
declared Beatrice confidently. “White Heron is the name of our Indian
guide. Mr. Carroll was telling me about him last night. He is a
Seminole and a great hunter.”
“I have no confidence in Indians,” disparaged Miss Martha. “I sincerely
hope Robert is not mistaken in this one. I shall have to see him for
myself in order to judge whether he is a fit person to act as guide on
this foolhardy expedition that Patsy is so set on making.”
This dampening assertion warned the trio of girls that it was high time
to discuss something else. They remembered Patsy’s difficulties of the
previous summer in wringing a reluctant permission from Miss Martha to
go camping in the mountains. Now it seemed she had again posted herself
on the wrong side of the fence. It therefore behooved them to drop the
subject where it stood, leaving the winning over of Miss Martha to wily
Patsy and her father.
Seated beside her father, who, knowing the road to Las Golondrinas,
was driving the car, Patsy was keeping up a running fire of delighted
exclamation over the tropical beauty of the country through which they
were passing.
“I’m so glad you bought this splendid place, Dad,” she rattled along in
her quick, eager fashion. “After I’m through college maybe we can come
down to Florida and spend a whole winter.”
“I had that idea in mind when I bought it,” returned her father. “It
will take considerable time to put Las Golondrinas in good condition
again. Old Fereda let it run down. There are some fine orange groves on
the estate, but they need attention. The house is in good condition.
It’s one of those old-timers and solidly built. The grounds were in bad
shape, though. I’ve had a gang of darkies working on them ever since
I bought the place. They’re a lazy lot. Still they’ve done quite a
little toward getting the lawns smooth again and thinning the trees and
shrubs.”
“Who was this Manuel de Fereda, anyway?” questioned Patsy curiously. “I
know he was Spanish and died, and that’s all.”
“I know very little about him, my dear. Mr. Haynes, the agent who sold
me the property, had never seen him. In fact, had never heard of him
until Fereda’s granddaughter put the place in his hands for sale. She
told Haynes that her grandfather was crazy. Haynes said she seemed
very anxious to get rid of the property and get away from it.”
“There’s just enough about the whole thing to arouse one’s curiosity,”
sighed Patsy. “I’d love to know more about this queer, crazy old
Spaniard. Maybe we’ll meet some people living near the estate who will
be able to tell us more about him.”
“Oh, you’ll probably run across someone who knows the history of the
Feredas,” lightly assured her father. “Neither the old mammy I engaged
as cook, nor the two maids can help you out, though. They come from
Miami and know no one in the vicinity. I’m still hunting for a good,
trustworthy man for general work. We shall need one while we’re here,
to run errands, see to the horses and make himself useful.”
“You must have worked awfully hard to get things ready for us, Dad.”
Patsy slipped an affectionately grateful hand into her father’s arm.
“I could have done better if I had known from the start that you were
really coming,” he returned. “I had to hustle around considerably. At
least you’re here now and your aunt can be depended upon to do the
rest. I hope she will get along nicely with her darkie help. They’re
usually as hard to manage as a lot of unruly children.”
“Oh, she will,” predicted Patsy. “She always makes everybody except
Patsy do as she says. Patsy likes to have her own way, you know.”
“So I’ve understood,” smiled Mr. Carroll. “Patsy usually gets it, too,
I’m sorry to say.”
“You’re not a bit sorry and you know it,” flatly contradicted Patsy.
“You’d hate to have me for a daughter if I were a meek, quiet Patsy who
never had an opinion of her own.”
“I can’t imagine such a thing,” laughed her father. “I’m so used to
being bullied by a certain self-willed young person that I rather like
it.”
“You’re a dear,” gaily approved Patsy. “I don’t ever really bully you,
you know. I just tell you what you have to do and then you go and do
it. That’s not bullying, is it?”
“Not in our family,” satirically assured Mr. Carroll.
Whereupon they both laughed.
Meanwhile, as they continued to talk in the half-jesting, intimate
fashion of two persons who thoroughly understand each other, the
big black car ate up the miles that lay between Palm Beach and Las
Golondrinas. As the party drew nearer their destination the highly
ornamental villas which had lined both sides of the road began to grow
fewer and farther apart. They saw less of color and riotous bloom and
more of the vivid but monotonous green of the tropics.
They turned at last from the main highway and due east into a white
sandy road which ran through a natural park of stately green pines.
Under the shadow of the pines the car continued for a mile or so, then
broke out into the open and the sunlight again.
“Oh, look!”
Half rising in the seat, Patsy pointed. Ahead of them and dazzlingly
blue in the morning sunshine lay the sea.
“How near is our new home to the ocean, Dad?” she asked eagerly.
“There it is yonder.”
Taking a hand briefly from the wheel, Mr. Carroll indicated a point
some distance ahead and to the right where the red-tiled roof of a
house showed in patches among the wealth of surrounding greenery.
“Why, it’s only a little way from the sea!” Patsy cried out. “Not more
than half a mile, I should judge.”
“About three quarters,” corrected her father. “The bathing beach is
excellent and there’s an old boathouse, too.”
“Are there any boats?” was the quick question.
“A couple of dinghys. Both leaky. I gave them to one of my black
fellows. Old Fereda was evidently not a sea dog. The boathouse was full
of odds and ends of rubbish. I had it cleared up and repainted inside
and out. It will make you a good bath house. It’s a trim looking little
shack now.”
Presently rounding a curve in the white, ribbon-like road, the
travelers found themselves again riding southward. To their left,
picturesque masses of jungle sloped down to the ocean below.
Soon to their right, however, a high iron fence appeared, running
parallel with the road. It formed the eastern boundary of Las
Golondrinas. Behind it lay the estate itself, stretching levelly toward
the red-roofed house in the distance. Long neglected by its former
owner, the once carefully kept lawns and hedges had put forth rank,
jungle-like growth. Broad-fronded palms and palmettos drooped graceful
leaves over seemingly impenetrable thickets of tangled green. Bush and
hedge, once carefully pruned, now flung forth riotous untamed masses
of gorgeous bloom.
“It looks more like a wilderness than a private estate,” was Patsy’s
opinion as her quick eyes roved from point to point in passing.
“It looked a good deal more like a jungle a few weeks ago,” returned
Mr. Carroll. “Wait until you pass the gates; then you’ll begin to
notice a difference. The improvements my black boys have made don’t
show from the road.”
For a distance of half a mile, the car continued on the sandy highway.
At last Mr. Carroll brought it to a stop before the tall, wrought-iron
gates of the main entrance to the estate. Springing from the
automobile, he went forward to open them.
“Every man his own gate-opener,” he called out jovially. “Drive ahead,
Patsy girl.”
Patsy had already slipped into the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel.
Immediately her father called out, she drove the machine slowly forward
and through the now wide-open gateway.
“Do let me drive the rest of the way, Dad,” she implored as Mr. Carroll
regained the car.
“All right. Follow this trail wherever it goes and you’ll finally bring
up at the house,” was the good-humored injunction.
By “trail” Mr. Carroll meant the drive, which, flanked by hedges of
perfumed oleander, wound through the grounds, describing a sweeping
curve as it approached the quaint, grayish-white building that had for
generations sheltered the Feredas. A little beyond the house and to its
rear, they glimpsed rank upon rank of orange trees, on which golden
fruit and creamy blossoms hung together amongst the glossy green of
foliage.
A light land breeze, freighted with the fragrance of many flowers, blew
softly upon the Wayfarers. Its scented sweetness filled them with fresh
delight and appreciation of their new home.
Patsy brought the car to a stop on the drive, directly in front of
an arched doorway, situated at the center of the facade. Before the
travelers had time to step out of the automobile the massive double
doors were swung open by a stout, turbaned mammy, the true southern
type of negro, fast vanishing from the latter day, modernized South.
Her fat, black face radiant with good will, she showed two rows of
strong white teeth in a broad smile. Beside her stood two young colored
girls who stared rather shyly at the newcomers.
“I done see yoh comin’, Massa Carroll!” she exclaimed. “I see yoh way
down de road. So I done tell Celia an’ Em’ly here, y’all come along
now, right smart, an’ show Massa Carroll’s folks yoh got some manners.’”
“Thank you, Mammy Luce,” gallantly responded Mr. Carroll, his blue eyes
twinkling with amusement. Whereupon he gravely presented the gratified
old servant to his “folks.” A courtesy which she acknowledged with an
even greater display of teeth and many bobbing bows.
Headed by Mr. Carroll, the travelers stepped over the threshold of Las
Golondrinas and into the coolness of a short stone passageway which
ended in the patio or square stone court, common to houses of Spanish
architecture.
In the center of the court a fountain sent up graceful sprays of water,
which fell sparkling into the ancient stone bowl built to receive the
silvery deluge. Above the court on three sides ranged the inevitable
balconies. Looking far upward one glimpsed, through the square opening,
a patch of blue sunlit sky.
“Welcome to Las Golondrinas, girls! It’s rather different from anything
you’ve ever seen before, now isn’t it?”
Mr. Carroll addressed the question to his flock in general, who
had stopped in the center of the court to take stock of their new
environment.
“It’s positively romantic!” declared Patsy fervently. “I feel as
though I’d stepped into the middle of an old Spanish tale. I’m sure
Las Golondrinas must have a wonderful history of its own. When you
stop to remember how many different Feredas have lived here, you can’t
help feeling that a lot of interesting, perhaps tragic things may have
happened to them. I only wish I knew more about them.”
“Let the poor dead and gone Feredas rest in peace, Patsy,” laughingly
admonished Eleanor. “We came down here to enjoy ourselves, not to dig
up the tragic history of a lot of Spanish Dons and Donnas.”
“A very sensible remark, Eleanor,” broke in Miss Martha emphatically.
“There is no reason that I can see why you, Patsy, should immediately
jump to the conclusion that this old house has a tragic history. It’s
pure nonsense, and I don’t approve of your filling your head with such
ideas. I dare say the history of these Feredas contains nothing either
startling or tragic. Don’t let such ridiculous notions influence you
to spend what ought to be a pleasant period of relaxation in trying to
conjure up a mystery that never existed.”
“Now, Auntie, you know perfectly well that if we happened to stumble
upon something simply amazing in this curious old house, you’d be just
as excited over it as any of us,” gaily declared Patsy.
“‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’” loftily quoted Miss
Martha, refusing to commit herself. “It will take something very
amazing indeed to impress me.”